Roses Are Red
by bushviper
Summary: Cullen and the Inquisitor fight like cats and dogs, but everyone knows how they really feel about each other. Their friends decide to give them a little nudge in the right direction with some "secret admirer" gifts. This was written for the 2016 TMB Secret Santa gift exchange, for MostHopelessofRomantics.


**A/N: Happy holidays everyone! This fic was written for my friend MostHopelessofRomantics, who posts over on AO3. Her fics are fantastic, please check them out!**

 **Big huge thanks to my awesome friend Cjulina for helping me with this story. I couldn't have done it without her. Go read her stuff!**

* * *

"Seriously, friends, what are we going to do about Cullen and Evelyn?" Varric asked, as he dealt a round for Wicked Grace.

"What can we do?" sniffed Dorian. "They're both as stubborn as druffalo and as ornery as wyverns."

"Perhaps they're just shy?" Josephine suggested, and Bull snorted.

"Shy, stubborn, ornery workaholics. I'm amazed they're not both virgins."

"Cullen's not," Varric remarked, and at everyone's curious looks, he set down his cards. "Okay, he _might_ have dallied with a friend of mine." He paused, then grinned. " _And_ her sister."

"Evelyn's no virgin, either," Dorian proclaimed, and at everyone's very curious looks, he shook his head with an exasperated laugh. " _Obviously_ , I don't know from experience, but she's confided in me enough that I'm quite certain she has a few notches in her bedpost, and knows how to get more. At least, with anyone but Cullen."

"Maybe we should just lock them in a room together and let them work it out," Blackwall grunted.

"They'll kill each other!" Josie protested, over the general enthusiasm of the table.

"They both need _romance,_ " Cassandra said, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks as she glanced at Varric, who winked at her. "It is the only way either of them will let down their guard."

Sera blew a raspberry. "Not happening, not with those two sticks-up-the-arse. Inky would rather eat glass than admit she wuvs her Cully-wully."

"And the Commander would poke his own eye out before he'd perform any grand romantic gestures for her, what with the way they argue," Blackwall said glumly. "It's too bad, I think they could both use the, heh, stress relief." He cast a sidelong look at Josie, who cleared her throat delicately and smiled at her cards.

"What if we did it for them?" Varric suggested.

"Stress relief?" Dorian asked innocently. "I'm not sure that's effective by proxy, but I'd be willing to give it a try."

Bull grinned and cocked his head towards the stairs. "Let's go, Vint."

Varric rolled his eyes. "What I meant was, what if we got the romantic gestures started, and let them think they were from each other? You know, give 'em a little nudge."

"Oooooh, pranks!" Sera cried, clapping her hands with glee.

" _Nice_ pranks, Buttercup," Varric warned. "Secret admirer type stuff. We won't come out and saywho it's from, we'll just let them draw their own conclusions."

"But what if they draw the wrong conclusions?" Cassandra said.

"That's why this is going to be a team effort," Varric replied. "Now, which one of you can break into Cullen's office?"

...

Evelyn jumped out of bed and dressed quickly, busily sifting through mental check-lists. The expedition to Emprise du Lion had overtaken her every waking thought, between the imperiled village, the red lyrium mines, the looming battle over Suledin Keep, and now, sightings of dragons! Each scouting report was more urgent than the last, and Evelyn itched to get on the road and _do something._ But it seemed that Commander Cullen was never satisfied with their preparations. Each day, he came up with a new reason to stall their departure – increasing the number of troops, concerns about the quality of supplies, waiting on better information regarding the defense of the keep – it went on and on, and it was maddening.

As she tied her boots, Evelyn muttered angrily to herself, practicing her argument with the Commander. She did this every morning, and it always sounded so good in her head, but once she got to the War Room, he had a way of tipping his eyebrow and curling his lip that made her feel like an impetuous child. He was just so bloody confident, as if the certitude of the outcomes he predicted was indubitable, and she'd be nothing short of a reckless, dangerous fool to disregard his advice. It didn't matter if she argued sensibly. Neither did it matter if she raised her voice, or pounded the table, or paced like a lion as she delivered her impassioned pleas on behalf of the poor people of Sahrnia, who were suffering terribly by any account. He never wavered.

"I am not insensible to their plight," Cullen had said yesterday, "but if we rush to their aid only to fail to secure the region, we will deliver them into circumstances even more dire. Our victory in Emprise must be decisive and complete. We have no room for error this time."

 _This time._ Oh, she'd heard the rebuke in his words, and the logic. It was true that some of their endeavors had gone better than others, but it was also true that she'd helped a lot of people, people who had no one else to defend them. Did Cullen think the Inquisition's reputation existed on diplomacy alone? Rubbish! It rested on Evelyn's shoulders, and on her ceaseless, tireless efforts to alleviate the misery she found in the Elder One's wake. Sahrnia was particularly upsetting, the trapped townsfolk little more than prey for the rapacious Red Templars. Evelyn had stopped there weeks ago when returning from a mission farther west, and at the time, she'd not had the manpower to liberate the town, but she couldn't forget the catastrophe she'd seen, and she'd made it her first priority to rescue them.

It made her heart sick to think of people cowering in their homes, risking starvation to avoid being kidnapped and carried off to the mines like chattel. Mothers holding thin little babes to dry breasts, fathers choosing which child to feed each day, the elderly braving the snow in search of food to spare their families the Red Templars' reach… As she imagined their despair, tears pooled in her eyes and a cry of anguish escaped her throat. This was insupportable. She was a coward and a derelict if she countenanced any more delays. Cullen would just have to bloody deal with it!

She stomped down the stairs, mentally girding herself for a fight, but she drew up short when she spied a small vase sitting at the bottom of the staircase, holding one beautiful red rose. A folded note lay in front of it, and reading it only increased her confusion.

 _Roses are red  
_ _Embrium is, too  
_ _I just can't seem to stop  
_ _Thinking of you._

A thrill of pleasure coursed through Evelyn's body as she puzzled over the note, followed immediately by a cold dash of suspicion. Did she really have a secret admirer, or was someone just having her on? She picked up the vase and carried it back to her desk, reading the poem over and over again. The handwriting didn't resemble the penmanship of anyone she knew, but perhaps it was disguised. Who would do such a thing, though? Blackwall seemed the type, but he was infatuated with Josephine, and he did _not_ seem the type to transfer his affections so easily. Varric was definitely a master of romantic gestures, which Evelyn knew because he performed them all the time…for Cassandra. He would never be so faithless – or suicidal – to stray behind the Seeker's back.

Solas? She snorted. No.

Iron Bull? Unlikely, he was too direct. Also, balls-deep in Dorian, most of the time. And Sera was more likely to woo with a fart joke than flowers.

Another name occurred to her, followed by a dizzying, electric tingle at the idea of it. The rush of pleasure disturbed her, and she resolutely put the idea from her mind. No. Not him. It wasn't him, and she didn't _want_ it to be him. She didn't like him and he certainly didn't like her, which they would both ably demonstrate in a few minutes' time, when Evelyn put her foot down about his needless delays of her mission. He would never, ever have written her a poem and she would never, ever wish for one from him. Not ever. Definitely not.

It probably _was_ Sera, pulling a prank. Evelyn crumpled the note and tossed it in her desk drawer, but she couldn't help giving the fragrant rose an appreciative sniff before she trudged back down the stairs, heart and mind in a tizzy. Damn you, Sera!

...

"Inquisitor, for the last time, I said no," Cullen declared firmly, then amended it slightly. "Not yet. We need another week, perhaps two. I will keep you apprised of our progress and preparations."

Evelyn glared at him through narrowed eyes, her hands curled into fists at her side, and then turned and stormed out of the War Room with a strangled growl. They'd been arguing for nearly an hour – or more accurately, Evelyn had been blustering at him for an hour while Cullen determinedly reviewed the numbers with her, explaining again and again over her impassioned protests why a hasty departure would doom the mission to liberate Emprise du Lion. He thought he'd displayed heroic patience with her as he presented the undeniable _facts_ that until Rylen returned with his unit, and the caravan of supplies from Orzammar reached Skyhold, they simply lacked both manpower and resources to capture and hold Suledin Keep. But Evelyn was apparently not interested in facts – all she cared about was feelings, specifically her terribly sad feelings about the poor sods stuck in Sahrnia.

It _was_ a miserable state of affairs, no question, but it could not be remedied by reckless action. The situation in Emprise was complicated: a sprawling web of Red Templar activity, diplomatic minefields, dangerous physical conditions, pockets of vulnerable civilians and fucking _dragons._ Not to mention that the interior of the Keep itself - how many men, what sort of defenses – was still an unknown variable. He'd be mad to throw his soldiers into the fray before the scouts reported back.

Of course, when he'd explained as much to the Inquisitor, she'd leaned across the War Table and hissed, "Every day we delay, _another baby dies._ "

Maker's hairy bollocks, what could he say to that?

"You're right, Inquisitor, you've hit the nail on the head," he muttered angrily to himself as he tromped down the stairs to the practice yard. "Dead babies, that's the goal here. Forget logistics, forget strategy, forget common fucking sense – this entire delay is just my patriotic attempt to cull the population of Orlais."

 _That_ was a little dark, even for his very sour mood, and he mentally rebuked himself for the comment. The most frustrating thing about being at cross purposes with the Inquisitor was that her heart was undeniably in the right place. She just couldn't refuse aid to anyone, from the lowest farmhand to the loftiest noble, as long as their plight stirred her sympathies. And once stirred, those sympathies possessed her with a nearly manic determination to remedy whatever injustice she perceived, no matter the cost or scope of the mission, or how it fit into the Inquisition's broader goals.

It was left to Cullen, then, to impose realistic limits on what she could achieve with the resources at hand. Evelyn would say that he was prioritizing _things_ over _people,_ but he had their men to consider, too. They'd pledged themselves to their cause and Cullen owed it to them to repay their pledge with prudent planning and sound tactics. Of _course,_ he regretted that postponing aid to Sahrnia endangered the most innocent of lives. If he could assemble all they needed this very moment, he'd have already done so and Evelyn would be on her way. Did she think him lazy? Indifferent?

Cullen growled as he swung his sword at his practice dummy. He hated how this conflict made him feel, as though by leading his army responsibly, he was some sort of baby-hating ogre. When he'd asked Evelyn if she cared for the lives of her own soldiers, she'd responded confidently that the men were ready and even impatient to take Emprise back from the Red Templars. As if that answered the question!

There _was_ an element he couldn't account for, one that nearly always worked in the Inquisition's favor, and that was Evelyn's ability to inspire the people she led. More than once, she'd squeaked out victories when defeat seemed certain, with little to account for her success beyond her steadfast and apparently contagious refusal to give up. Perhaps her determination would be enough, even now, to drive the Red Templar scourge from Emprise du Lion. Perhaps he _was_ unnecessarily delaying desperately needed relief to Sahrnia by not placing more faith in Evelyn's command.

But the numbers did not add up. By his every calculation, to rush into the region now would result in unacceptable losses _at best,_ and at worst, catastrophic defeat. And at very worst, it would cost them Evelyn herself, the one person capable of closing the rifts and confronting Corypheus. He could not sign off on such a reckless endeavor, and he would not. If that made him a merciless baby-killer, so be it.

He attacked the dummy until it fell apart, attempting with each swing to purge himself of his anger at Evelyn's unfair, unfounded, _unfeeling_ accusations against his character.

"Why do I even care?" he snarled under his breath, sheathing his blade and stalking up the steps to his office. What difference did it make to him if Evelyn thought him callous? He knew his own mind, and as long as he did his job to the best of his ability, his conscience could be at peace.

When he entered his office, he was surprised to find a beautiful peach sitting upon his desk, with a folded note in front of it. The note read:

 _Roses are red  
_ _Peaches are sweet  
_ _I'm all ripe and juicy  
_ _For you to eat_

And then, to clarify, the author added:

 _(… down THERE)_

Cullen dropped the bit of parchment as if it had burned him. Who on earth would send him a bawdy poem? He picked up the note again and examined the handwriting, but he didn't recognize it.

Obviously, it was some sort of prank, which made Sera the most likely culprit, although he was quite sure Sera did not want any part of Cullen going anywhere near her "peach," so the point of the jest eluded him. Perhaps, then, it was one of the men? Bull certainly trafficked in ribaldry, and Blackwall had the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy. Maybe one of them had found it amusing to tease the Commander with the idea that a secret admirer had sent him a lewd invitation. They _were_ constantly implying that he needed to get laid.

For just a moment, Cullen allowed himself to indulge in the idea that the crude note somehow represented a genuine expression of desire. It was a ridiculous notion, and he wasn't sure that he would even want to "eat the peach" of someone who approached him in such a bizarre and inscrutable way, but… there was something exciting and intoxicating about the idea of someone wanting him. Some unknown woman, wet and ready for him…

A face flashed in his mind, and Cullen gasped in shock at the woman his imagination had supplied to fill the role. Preposterous! There was no way _she_ had authored the note – and why would he want her to? She was stubborn and prickly and argumentative, and even if he admired her energy and idealism, it still didn't make her any less of a pain in his arse. She was beautiful, though, he had to admit.

The image again… her head thrown back, her slim throat bared to him, her thighs parting as he kissed his way down her naked body…

"Fuck!" Cullen groaned, crumpling the note and tossing it in a drawer. "Damn you, Sera!"

...

Evelyn glared at the rose on her desk as if she expected the flower itself to answer for her distraction. She had work to do – reports to read, requisitions to approve, diplomatic letters to pen – but instead, for surely the hundredth time, she pulled the crumpled note from her drawer and smoothed it on the glossy surface of her escritoire.

"Well, I can't stop thinking of you either, whoever you are," she griped as she re-read the silly poem. She was furious with herself for allowing the gesture – which was most certainly a prank! – to seize her imagination and fill her with an agitated, wistful longing. She wanted it to be real.

She wanted it to be from Cullen.

"I am the stupidest mooncalf in Thedas," she groaned.

Cullen had not sent her a flower. Cullen had not written her a poem. Cullen _had_ lectured her, condescended to her, rejected her requests, and treated her like a histrionic bubblebrain – so why did she want him to woo her? Was there something wrong with her? Did she lack self-worth?

It must be, she decided, a subconscious desire to soothe her ragged ego. Cullen was an infuriating prig, but he was a good Commander and an intelligent man, and she respected his opinion (even if he did not respect hers). It smarted, then, the knowledge that he considered her the very embodiment of a stereotype, the hysterical woman unable to balance logic and emotion. As if a person had to be ruled entirely by one or the other! As if there was something _wrong_ with passion, with feeling, with caring for the welfare of others!

She was starting to get angry with him all over again, but then she thought of his eyes, warm and serious, and his beautiful mouth with that tantalizing scar, and how it transformed his face when he offered one of his rare smiles…

"I hate myself," Evelyn moaned.

A knock on the door startled her back to her senses, and she hastily crumpled the note again and stuffed it back into the drawer.

"Come up!" she called, and one of the kitchen girls made her way to the top of the stairs, carrying a small tray.

"I was asked to bring this to you, Your Worship," she said shyly.

"And who asked you to do this?" Evelyn asked, as she indicated for the girl to set the tray on the desk. She spotted a folded note tucked under the edge of a saucer and her pulse began to race.

"I'm sorry, Your Worship, but I was told not to say. I was given an order." The poor woman looked at her pleadingly, begging with her eyes for Evelyn not to issue a conflicting order and force her to choose which superior to obey. Though she wanted to, Evelyn wouldn't do such a thing; it wasn't fair.

"How mysterious!" she said with a smile, and the girl slumped with relief. "Thank you so much for the delivery. Good evening."

"Good evening, Your Worship," the young woman replied with a bobbing curtsey, and then scampered down the stairs.

When Evelyn heard the door close, she reached for the folded parchment. In the same, blockish handwriting, it read:

 _Roses are red.  
_ _Milk is creamy.  
_ _Here's hoping your slumber  
_ _Is warm, sweet and dreamy._

 _Sleep well, Evelyn._

"Andraste preserve me, what is going on?" she mused out loud.

Her cheeks flushed as she read the note several times over, allowing herself to wonder if it was sincere after all. A trick would soon cross from silly to cruel, if the prankster kept this up, and Evelyn couldn't imagine why anyone at Skyhold would go to lengths to falsely convince her that someone cared for her. So perhaps, someone did? Not Cullen, of course. It couldn't be Cullen. But someone else?

Evelyn opened the lid to the small kettle and sniffed. Instead of the bitter scent of tea, a spicy, chocolatey aroma filled her nose. She poured the steaming liquid into the teacup and took a hesitant sip, sighing in delight at the smooth, silky texture and rich, sweet flavor. Warm milk blended with chocolate and spices – a drink she'd fallen in love with when she'd visited Antiva City as a child. Could Josephine be her secret admirer? They'd rhapsodized many times on the exquisite pleasure of a properly prepared _chocolat_ – but Josie seemed no more likely to suddenly abandon her affection for Blackwall than he for her. She couldn't imagine the sensitive diplomat brazenly pursuing another right in front of him, especially when his feelings were still engaged.

Maybe Evelyn was simply reading too much into these silly gifts. Perhaps they were expressions of friendship and nothing more. In that case, anyone might have sent them, for Evelyn had plenty of friends. Sipping the hot chocolate, she retrieved the other note from the drawer, and re-read them both.

No, she was not imagining it. If her mysterious correspondent meant the gifts as platonic gestures, he or she certainly wasn't taking any care to avoid romantic implications.

Evelyn remembered something, with a jolt that sent her drink spilling all over her tunic. The kitchen help had said she was given an _order_ not to say who sent the gift. And who at Skyhold was more prone to giving orders than…

She dropped her forehead to her desk. "Maker help me, I've lost my mind!"

...

When Cullen ascended the ladder to his sleeping quarters, it was past midnight. He'd spent the evening in the War Room, poring over field reports and aid requisitions, though he'd stubbornly refused to let himself look at any papers connected to the missions in Emprise du Lion. They'd received enough of his attention already, and no amount of second-guessing himself would change the facts and figures.

He also tried not to think about peaches. Or "peaches."

Trying not to think about things simply made him want to think of them more, of course, and now he had a throbbing headache…and a throbbing cock. He pulled himself up into his bedroom, tired and cranky, and, thanks to that ridiculous nonsense with the peach, a bit randy as well. For the first time since joining the Inquisition, he wished he was back in Kirkwall, where finding a tumble was as easy as flashing a smile. Maybe if Hawke were still here…but she'd gone ahead to scout Adamant, and Cullen didn't really want Hawke, anyway. She was fun, but…

He sighed. She wasn't Evelyn. Andraste's arse, how could he have let himself develop these feelings? Was he a masochist? Did he lack self-worth?

Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps his pride compelled him to want her, and to find a way to make her want him back. He wasn't sure he could – Evelyn thought him cold, stodgy, hard-hearted and boring. It wasn't fair; the only reason he had to be such a marplot all the time was because she refused to restrain herself, to check her impulses or her endless designs to intervene on behalf of every needy man, woman, child and beast in Thedas. Evelyn's empathy might be boundless, but the Inquisition's resources were not. And until she recognized that, he would have to tell her no, even when he'd much rather say yes.

But that made him think of _Evelyn_ saying yes, over and over again, frantically, ecstatically… Maker, all that passion –

"Enough, Rutherford," he scolded himself, palming his aching cock as he unlaced his trousers. He undressed and placed his clothes in the laundry bin, compulsively folding them first even though he knew it was silly. He carried the candle over to his nightstand, and then drew back in surprise.

There was a pot sitting on the upended crate he used as a side table, and the pot contained the ugliest plant he'd ever seen. It looked half-dead, with stiff, spiky brown leaves projecting from the thin, reedy stems.

Cullen narrowed his eyes. There was a folded note hanging over the rim of the ceramic container.

He snatched it up and sat on the bed, leaning close to the candle to read it.

 _Roses are red  
_ _Witherstalk is sappy  
_ _Give the pole a smear  
_ _Or you'll be changing nappies_

Under that, because his tormenter clearly thought him either an innocent or an imbecile, it read:

 _(Prevents knock-ups, see?)_

"Maker's balls," Cullen growled, his cheeks growing hot.

Someone was having him on, clearly. But to what end? He couldn't understand the purpose of a prank that seemed to have no return for the trickster. If the 'gifts' had been presented in public, he'd imagine some jester was just enjoying his discomfort, but he was alone. Wasn't he? He glanced about the room suspiciously, suddenly alarmed that someone might be spying on him. Dragging the bedsheet across his crotch, he peered up at the broken ceiling, but all he saw was stars.

It made no sense. Why would someone send him presents with risqué meanings, if not to embarrass him? And yet, if his unease was only endured in private, what satisfaction did it provide anyone else?

"What is the bloody point of this?" he asked the silent room.

Crumpling the note in his fist, Cullen glared at the ugly plant, which he intended to return to the herb garden first thing in the morning. Not that it mattered presently, but there were far better ways to prevent pregnancy than rubbing slimy plant juice all over his dick. That was for amateurs, teenagers nicking twigs from the Chantry garden before meeting their sweethearts in the storeroom. Not that he'd know anything about _that_ …

Cullen cleared his throat.

Once again, he briefly allowed himself to consider that perhaps it wasn't a joke. Perhaps these strange notes and odd gifts represented a clumsy but sincere attempt to seduce him? He scoffed, laughing at himself, and blew out the candle. No one could be that clueless. And there was no way – _no way_ – that the one person he'd want to make such an effort would go about it like this.

How would Evelyn Trevelyan seduce a man? It was an intriguing thought. She might be the type to just go for it, push him up against a wall and have her way with him, all lush curves and strong hands and soft lips and hot tongue…but perhaps she'd be more hesitant, saving her glorious, ardent energy for a signal that she was wanted and welcome. Perhaps, to get close to her would feel like unwrapping a package, only to find it contained the heat of the sun...

Cullen moaned. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. Evelyn did not want him, or even like him. His energy would be much better spent trying to figure out who was sending him these stupid messages, and why.

But his hand slid down his stomach, and he took himself in a firm grip, and in his mind, he spread Evelyn out across the War Table and ravished her right over Emprise du Lion.

...

For the first time since the early days in Haven, Evelyn did not immediately get out of bed when she awoke, nor did her mind fill up with impending tasks. She wished it had; she'd have much preferred to be preoccupied with Inquisition business, but she felt paralyzed with overwhelming emotions. She had dreamed of Cullen.

All bloody night.

It was almost as if the note and the warm _chocolat_ had taken over her mind, enveloping her in a phantasmagorical fog of romance and eroticism. The dreams had cascaded and swirled, changing but never quite ending; she'd wake up from one and another would begin, but he was in all of them. Touching her. Smiling at her. Kissing her. Holding her in his arms. And in the last one, Maker!

She squeezed her thighs together, and she could feel even from that quick compression that her sex was soaked. No surprise, since her loins ached almost painfully after such a steamy oneiric encounter. She tried to banish her burning hunger for his touch from her brain, but it was impossible, and after a moment, she gave up entirely and slipped her fingers between her legs. Her mind supplied a vision of the Commander from her dreams, naked and hard, and Evelyn imagined riding him until she exploded with pleasure, desperately whispering his name into her pillow.

Her orgasm had relieved the pressure in her core, but her chest was still filled with a deep sense of longing for the feelings of safety and happiness that dream-Cullen had provided. She wanted more than anything to close her eyes and sink back into the fantasies that had felt so real, to bask in the pleasure of his warmth and affection.

"Why am I doing this to myself?" she wailed in frustration.

The Cullen she'd conjured up for herself didn't exist. Real Cullen wasn't warm, he wasn't comforting, and he certainly wasn't interested in holding hands. Or embracing her tenderly. Or fucking her like an animal on the War Table.

Real Cullen was probably already at said War Table, going over their endless paperwork and judging the Inquisitor for her tardiness. With an irritated huff, Evelyn jumped out of bed and rushed to get dressed, determinedly ignoring the suggestive slickness between her thighs.

When she reached the War Room, Cullen was indeed already there. He glanced up from the report he was reading when she burst through the door, his dark brows drawn together in a scowl.

"Sorry I'm late," Evelyn said tersely, in no mood for a lecture, but Cullen waved off her apology and held the scroll out to her.

"News from Emprise, and it's not good, I'm afraid."

He stood near her as she read over the report, and his scent was so distracting that she could hardly focus on the report. Beneath the familiar odors of metal and leather, he exuded a clean, soapy smell, as if he'd just come from a bath. Sweet Maker, the thought of Cullen in the bath was not one she could dwell upon, not if she wanted to function beyond drooling and giggling and lascivious stares. Gritting her teeth, Evelyn forced herself to focus on the missive in her hands. It seemed their scouts had determined that within Suledin Keep, Corypheus' officers were experimenting with a new breed of "soldier" – giants, purposely infected with red lyrium.

"Well, that's bloody fantastic," she muttered, and Cullen grunted in agreement.

"Just the news you wanted to hear, I'm sure," he said wryly. "It doesn't appear as though the creatures are threatening the villagers, but it does complicate the mission to take the fort."

"Meaning more delays?" Evelyn asked sharply.

"Possibly, Inquisitor," Cullen replied, just as sharply. "I've sent a message to the Hinterlands to recall some of our soldiers in Redcliffe. The situation there is stable enough that I believe they can make do with fewer men, and I'm looking for other units to redirect to Emprise."

"Well, how long will that take?" Evelyn said.

"As long as it takes," Cullen replied infuriatingly. "We should be able to assemble enough soldiers to move on Suledin in the next three weeks, and - "

"Three weeks?" Evelyn cried. "Commander, that's unacceptable. Can't I lead a small unit to Sahrnia now and at least drive back the Red Templars who are raiding the village?"

"We've been over this, Evelyn. The last thing we need is to alert their generals of our interest in the area. Half the reason this is taking so long is because it's bloody difficult to amass that many men near enough to the region to be of help, without showing our hand. You must be more patient, Inquisitor. This situation calls for caution, not haste."

"I doubt the villagers would agree," Evelyn snapped. "I've _been_ to Sahrnia, Commander. I've spoken with the people, I've heard their desperate cries. They need us and they need us _now_."

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Inquisitor, we've had this argument every day since you returned from Orlais and I've explained myself as best I can. If you won't accept my recommendations, then do what you like, and if you get ripped apart by a giant, I'll have 'I told you so' engraved on your urn."

Evelyn turned away from him, agitated and distressed. She hated feeling this way, torn between her duty as Inquisitor to lead her people safely and responsibly, and her calling as Andraste's Herald to deliver innocents from suffering and grief. Cullen didn't understand. To him, their misery was abstract, a thing he knew of, but couldn't measure, unlike soldiers and resources and tactics. But Evelyn carried their faces and their voices in her mind and in her heart, and it tormented her to know that for every night she slept in a comfortable bed, dreaming of her Commander, people in need shivered and starved, uncertain of their survival from one day to the next. Her throat ached, and tears welled up in her eyes.

 _Great,_ she thought. _Nothing like crying to convince Cullen I'm competent._

And thanks to her ridiculous dream, now she longed for him to take her in his arms and comfort her, to reassure her that she was doing enough and that she would get to Sahrnia in time.

"There is a bit a good news," Cullen said, clearing his throat awkwardly as Evelyn composed herself. "Josephine has found a man to administer the Keep, once we overtake it. He's Orlesian, with many diplomatic and trade ties in the region and beyond, so he should be able to soothe any alarm in Val Royeaux over our military operations."

"Excellent," Evelyn replied, still feeling upset. "Glad someone's doing her job."

As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted them. Cullen might not be prioritizing her concerns as much as she'd like, but she had no cause to imply he wasn't giving the operation his full effort. She turned to him to apologize, but shut her mouth when she met his hard, angry stare.

"If that will be all," he said coldly, and without waiting for her answer, he stalked out of the War Room, slamming the door behind him.

Evelyn dragged her fingers through her hair, feeling absolutely wretched. Now she could regret being nasty to Cullen on top of all the other guilt she already felt. She'd have to find a good way to apologize - too bad she couldn't deploy her mystery admirer on the errand!

The thought did give her an idea, though...

...

"Sera! Explain yourself!" Cullen barked, slamming a piece of parchment on the tavern table and disrupting a lively game of Wicked Grace.

He'd had enough. When he'd returned to his office after dinner, having stewed all day over Evelyn's unfair rebuke, he'd found a rolled up scroll on his desk, tied with a pretty bow. Unfurling the scroll revealed an absolutely shocking drawing of a woman on her knees before Cullen - in the Chantry, no less! - with the very helpful labels of "You" and "Me," and then "Your Dick," "My Mouth." It was just a sketch, but the woman looked a bit like Evelyn, and Cullen knew Sera was the culprit. He was quite familiar with her "artistic stylings," for she was fond of doodling all over his reports.

The entire table stared in shock at the crude illustration, and Cullen irritatedly tossed the two previous notes on the pile as well, with an angry flick of his wrist.

"And these? What is the point of this nonsense?" When Sera just covered her mouth with her hands and giggled, Cullen leaned forward and growled. "Answer me!"

"Ah, Curly, maybe I'd better explain…," Varric said, and then held up his hands appeasingly when Cullen turned his ferocious glare on him. "Have a seat, my friend. This could take a minute."

Cullen did not particularly want to sit down, but he did want an explanation, so he pulled up a chair and dropped into it, staring daggers at Sera from across the table. Josephine and Cassandra bent their heads together, murmuring disapprovingly as they examined the elf's drawing.

"This?" Josie asked, her voice dripping with disbelief. "This is your idea of romance?"

"Yeah!" Sera said. "To the point, innit? Right to the good stuff." She waggled her eyebrows at Cullen.

"No wonder you are single," Cassandra said darkly, "if this is how you woo."

"I don't have any trouble gettin' mine," Sera said, leaning back in her chair and chugging her ale.

"To be fair, wooing men is not her area of expertise," Dorian said. "We probably should have put someone else on the case and just let her deliver the messages. Although, honestly," he added as he examined Sera's poems, "I'm a little surprised this didn't work. I mean, they're clearly not from Evelyn, but..."

 _Evelyn?_

"What. The fuck. Is going on?" Cullen snarled, and everyone jumped.

"Commander, we were trying to help," Cassandra began.

"Help me what?" Cullen asked. "And what does this have to do with Evelyn?"

"Technically, your gifts were meant to help her Inquisitorialness," Varric explained. "I know this sounds bad, but we really did have good intentions. You were supposed to receive a few amorous tokens that might be from her. Um, obviously that part didn't work out as planned." Varric tossed a disgusted look at Sera, who shrugged.

"But why?" Cullen asked, as perplexed as he was embarrassed and angry.

"We thought if you both received a few anonymous gestures of, let's say, romantic intent, and with a few nudges in the right direction, you might admit your feelings for each other," Varric said.

"I don't - I'm not - I don't know what you mean," Cullen sputtered. "And I certainly don't need any help in that department."

"Oh, come on, Commander," Bull laughed. "You're crazy about her and you have been for months. And she's just as crazy about you. I can't remember the last time I had a conversation with her that your name didn't come up a dozen times."

"I - really?" Cullen asked.

"Really," Dorian, Blackwall, and Cassandra said in unison.

"Look, Curly, maybe in hindsight, this wasn't the _best_ plan, but now that the cat's out of the bag, you have to admit, you and Evelyn really complement each other." Varric sighed. "When you're not bickering, that is. Couldn't you put that energy to more…enjoyable use?"

Sera snickered, and Cullen scowled. "None of this is your business. And, Maker's breath! Have you also been sending love notes to her? On my behalf?"

"Not exactly on your behalf…," Varric said, and then explained their gambit so far. Cullen was relieved that the gifts Evelyn had received had been more appropriate, but then he grew concerned.

"This is a cruel jest," he said. "She's going to think these gifts are sincere."

"Say you sent 'em," Sera said. "We won't tell."

"I can't do that! Besides, she doesn't even like me," Cullen protested, and the table erupted into loud laughter.

"Is that what is holding you back?" Dorian said, shaking his head. "Commander, she adores you, and if she weren't so pig-headed, she'd have realized it ages ago. You two really are meant to be."

Cullen sat back in his chair, his heart racing. He couldn't believe his so-called friends had so egregiously overstepped their bounds to meddle in his affairs, but the idea that Evelyn _adored_ him was so distracting, he couldn't even work up a proper temper about their interference.

"It would be very unkind for you all to tell me this if it's not true," he began, and everyone groaned.

"Curly, go talk to her," Varric said kindly. "Preferably without snarling at her."

"I don't snarl," he said fiercely, and then realized that he'd done just that. He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "All right, maybe I do." He snatched up Sera's "love notes" and fixed them all with a stern glare. "No more of this nonsense, with me or with Evelyn. From now on, I'll handle this."

"Atta boy, Commander," Bull said.

Cullen shook his head and stalked up the stairs, his stomach in knots. He really ought to be furious, especially with Cassandra and Josephine, who should have been sensible enough to put a stop to this rubbish before it began. And he was terrified that they'd all read Evelyn entirely wrong, and that he was about to humiliate himself by confessing his feelings. After all, she certainly hadn't seemed like she adored him this morning, when she'd implied he wasn't good at his job.

Freezing outside the door to his office, Cullen rested his forehead on the rough wood with his hand on the knob. Was he about to make a fool of himself? Should he just forget the whole venture and let Evelyn make of it what she would? With a sigh, Cullen opened the door. Cowardice was not a good look on him, and even if she rejected his advances, at least she ought to know what had happened.

When he entered his office, he found a plate of cookies on his desk with a folded note. His first response was to growl Sera's name, wondering what awful sexual "poem" she'd penned now, and he picked up the parchment reluctantly. To his surprise, it was written in a hand he recognized.

 _Commander Cullen,_

 _I'm sorry I was so rude this morning.  
_ _I know how hard you work and I shouldn't have implied otherwise.  
_ _It may seem silly, but I made some cookies for you.  
_ _Please accept them with my apologies._

 _-Evelyn_

Well! That was nice of her! Perhaps she didn't quite hate him after all. He read the note again, gently swiping his thumb across her familiar signature. The tangle of anxiety in his gut began to unravel, replaced with a cautious feeling of happiness. It couldn't exactly be a coincidence that Evelyn had been receiving romantic gifts, and had decided to make amends to him with a gift of her own. She'd never done anything like that before, and they'd certainly had plenty of rows. He picked up a cookie and took a bite - delicious! He knew she liked to bake when stressed, but he'd never been the beneficiary of her efforts, even if he'd often been the cause.

Feeling markedly more optimistic, Cullen decided to change out of his armor and clean up properly before going to see her. It couldn't hurt his chances with her, making a proper effort to look like a normal person rather than grumpy Commander Cullen. He took a few more cookies with him as he climbed his ladder, savoring their moist sweetness.

"Roses are red, cookies are sweet, but you've got the cookie that I want to eat," he said, and then laughed at himself. Maker help him, he was no better a poet than Sera. He'd better stick to prose.

As he tried to come up with the perfect thing to say to express his feelings to the Inquisitor, his every thought sounded utterly ridiculous in his head. _Your eyes are are clear as the Miroir de la Mère…_ which was poisoned. Nevermind. _Your skin is as soft as the finest Antivan leather…_ wait, did women want their skin compared to leather? Probably not. _Your hair is as glossy as an Amarathine Charger's tail…_

"Ugh, and I'm as eloquent as a horse's arse," he grumbled.

Too bad he didn't have time to write to his old friend, Sebastian Vael, for advice. That man was so romantic, he could charm the knickers off a marble statue of Andraste herself. Ah well. If he couldn't find a way to compare Evelyn's smiles to the heavens, at least he could tell her in plain, unadorned speech that he found them very pretty.

...

Evelyn stood on her balcony, enjoying her hot chocolate and staring at the stars. She had work to do, of course, but she was too jittery to focus. She felt nervous about her gesture to Cullen, and how he would receive it. She'd tried to strike the right balance between apologetic, friendly, and professional, but now she was second-guessing herself. Did it seem like a come on? Or perhaps hopelessly dowdy? Who makes a man cookies? Ugh, his grandmother. Sexy.

She narrowed her eyes in curiosity as she spied a small crowd gathering on the ramparts above the Herald's Rest. It was too dark to make out faces, but she did see the silhouette of Bull's horns. Perhaps the Chargers were having a meeting? Strange.

"Inquisitor?" The polite, soft salutation came from her bedroom, and she nearly dropped her cup in surprise to see Cullen emerge from the door.

"Commander?" she asked, her pulse racing. She'd rather hoped her apology might draw him to her, but she was afraid to wish for it too much. It was why she'd gone out on the balcony, to stop herself from constantly listening for steps on the stairs.

Cullen approached her quickly, an odd expression on his face. "Evelyn, ah, hi." He glanced up at the clear sky, littered with sparkling stars. "It's a nice night, hmm?"

"Yes, quite the lovely evening," she agreed, watching him with total bemusement. "Is… that why you're here? To talk about the… night?"

"No," he said, and stepped a little closer. "I want to tell you…"

"Yes?" Evelyn asked, leaning in to him. She'd never seen him in this sort of mood. He was usually so confident, arrogant even, but tonight he seemed unsure of himself.

"Um," he said softly, "actually, I really just want to do this."

Evelyn gasped in surprise when he took her face in his hands and brought his mouth to hers. He kissed her sweetly, almost reverently, and the feel of his lips on hers was more intoxicating than the strongest rotgut in Cabot's cabinet. Eventually, Cullen pulled back, but then he seemed to change his mind and ducked his head for another slow kiss. Evelyn's knees were shaking by the end of it.

"I take it you liked the cookies?" she joked in a weak voice, when he finally pulled away.

"I did," he said with a soft laugh, dropping his hands to her hips. "Ah, sorry, I suppose that was a bit abrupt."

A clamor behind her had both of them peering over the balcony. On top of the tavern, the small crowd was waving bottles and cheering and hollering their names. Evelyn realized the huge, brightly lit windows of her bedroom had given the perfect backdrop for their kiss to be seen all over Skyhold. Maker, she'd never hear the end of it now!

Cullen didn't seem happy either. He made a rude gesture in the direction of the crowd and then pulled Evelyn inside, where they both quickly closed all of the drapes. Task complete, they stood on opposite sides of the room, and awkwardness set in.

"So," she said, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Well, I," Cullen sighed. "I have a lot of things I want to say to you, but at least one of them is probably going to be embarrassing for both of us. Would you rather hear that first, or should I start with complimenting your hair?"

Evelyn laughed in surprise and smoothed her hair self-consciously. "I don't know! Ah, let's hear about my hair first?"

Cullen approached her, the scarred side of his mouth pulling up in a small smile. She realized he wasn't wearing his armor, just a simple tunic and breeches, and while he didn't look nearly as intimidating, Maker's breath, he was gorgeous! She could see his shifting muscles through his clothes and it made her want to lick him from head to toe.

"Your hair is very pretty," he said when he got close to her, "and it always smells really nice." He reached for her and she stepped into his arms, silently boggling that this was even happening. He pressed his nose to the top of her head and inhaled. "Like lilies. Or maybe lilacs? I'm honestly not really good with flowers. Or poems."

The dizzy smile faded from Evelyn's face and she felt a frisson of trepidation. "Poems?"

"Not my forte," Cullen admitted. "Nor romantic gifts, really. I mean, I'll try, if that's what you want, but it's not really my style."

"What are you saying, Cullen?" Evelyn's confusion was growing, and she glanced at the flower on her desk.

"I'm afraid it's a long, awkward story," he said, and then explained that he, too, had been receiving mysterious gifts. By the end of the tale, he produced the letters and drawing from Sera to show her, and Evelyn was howling with laughter.

"She meant these to be from me?" she gasped as she examined Sera's drawing and then collapsed into giggles all over again. "Maker, I suppose I should be flattered she thinks me so bold!"

"Bold? More like barmy," Cullen grumbled, but he was laughing, too, and his arms were wrapped around her waist. "I wish I _had_ sent you your gifts. They're very nice. I'm afraid Cassandra and Josephine probably set the bar a little high for me. The poems are definitely beyond my reach."

"Well, I think you can manage the occasional flower and tasty beverage, if you're so inclined," she teased him, "but honestly I really don't need gifts or poems. I'm just," her breath caught in her throat and she smiled shyly. "I'm just glad you want to be here with me at all. I didn't think you liked me."

Cullen made a disbelieving face. "Of course, I like you. How could I not? You're amazing." His smile grew a bit sly. "An uncompromising pain in the arse, but amazing."

Evelyn jabbed him in the ribs, grinning. "Look who's talking! I've never met anyone so stubborn!"

Cullen scoffed. "You've met yourself, haven't you? Anyway, I didn't think you liked me either," he said, his voice growing more sincere. "I know I'm not always what you want me to be, as a friend or a colleague. But I hope to show you another side, a more passionate side. If you'll have me."

"I will," Evelyn replied, leaning up to kiss him. "I'd very much like to see that side of you. And I very much like the sides I've already seen, even if you frustrate me." It was her turn to grow sly. "Well. Turn around actually. Now that you're out of your armor and that cape, there's a side of you I'm quite eager to appreciate."

Cullen looked a bit embarrassed, but he gamely turned around, playfully flexing his muscles. Evelyn's heart felt like it might explode with joy, and she felt a quiet rush of gratitude for this evening, for Cullen, and for the unexpected gift her friends had given her.

"So," she said, her cheeks growing warm. "If it's not too presumptuous to ask, did you bring that witherstalk with you?"

Cullen made a face. "No, of course not." Evelyn instantly regretted the question and the assumption it contained, but then he pulled a small vial from his pocket. "I brought a potion, like an adult. Much more effective and less messy."

Grinning with relief, she pulled him in for a kiss. "Since you're such an adult, I take it you know how to… eat a peach?"

"Oh, I know how to eat peaches," he purred. "And what about you, Evelyn? Are you clear on your duties? Would you like to take a look at Sera's diagram? It's very instructional."

Evelyn threw her head back and laughed, and Cullen attacked her throat with his lips and teeth. "Trust me, I know what to do," she replied, squirming in his arms. "Take me to bed and I'll prove it."

"As you wish," Cullen said, and then, remembering a tried-and-true Vaelism added, "...my goddess."

FIN


End file.
